


pink

by orphan_account



Series: lipstick / lace / skin [3]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Collars, Crossdressing, Crying, Dom/sub, Feminization, Flogging, M/M, Painplay, Panties, Riding, Schmoop, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe Sex, crossdrhyssing, even more schmoop, wow damn this is filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys wears pretty panties and Faris fucks him even more. also, feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pink

So this is early morning, the part of early when the sun's just come out all too bright and white and turning everything washed-out like an overexposed photo. Faris is in the shower, as he always is, and Rhys is up in the kitchen making pancakes. Some mornings, he's not sure how this all happened, how they went from just fucking to this, to Faris sleeping in Rhys' bed every single night, wrapped all the way around him, and to spending long hours curled up on the couch and having breakfast together. He's not sure if he likes how this all makes him feel, how _Faris_ makes him feel, all open and undone, not just in a physical sense, but all soft and relaxed and at ease. It's the same way it feels after tripping and not actually falling, which, Rhys reckons, is also a very appropriate way to describe Faris.

He stirs the pancake batter in the pan, mildly dissatisfied with how it won't fry properly, and that's when Rhys feels Faris fold himself over him, hands on his hips and nosing at his neck, his damp chest pressed against Rhys' back.

“Morning, princess,” Faris drawls, thumbs rubbing at Rhys' hipbones, and his chin hooks over Rhys' shoulder, asking for a kiss.

Rhys obliges, lets Faris press a sloppy lick against his mouth, and then he replies, “mm, morning.”

“Are those pancakes?”

“Yeah.” Rhys turns the heat on the stove up a bit more and wriggles in Faris' grip, but Faris doesn't relent, his hands so big that they encircle Rhys' waist almost fully. “Blueberry pancakes.”

“Mm.” Faris' large hands rub down to Rhys' hips and pet at the prominent bones there where they're just peeking out from last night's knickers, sheer purple lace and ruffles, and he asks, “why're you making blueberry pancakes?”

“Why not?”

Rhys flips the first pancake over, careful to have none of the oil from the pan splatter out and burn his bare chest, and then he finally leans back and lets Faris kiss him a second time, their lips brushing over each other softly. He can feel Faris pressing up against the cleft of his arse, even through their two pairs of underwear separating them, red-hot and urging him on, so he rolls his hips back a little.

“I like your knickers,” Faris says against Rhys' lips when they've pulled apart for a second, his fingers petting the ruffles.

“Thanks.” Rhys leans all the way back against Faris and rolls his hips back just because he can. He wants it, of course he does, but he likes to listen to Faris' breath go a bit faster and tighter, to feel those fingers on his hips tug him back against his cock. Himself, he can already feel his own fatten up a bit, pressing against the stretchy chiffon of the knickers. “I like them too.”

Faris' thumbs sink into the waistband of them and he growls, soft and low into Rhys' neck, “come here, love.”

Rhys barely has enough time to turn the stove off before Faris is beckoning for him to turn around, and, the next second, walking them both over to the kitchen table and setting Rhys onto the very edge of it.

There's no pancakes that morning.

 

–

 

It's one lazy afternoon in Rhys' flat that Faris brings up the idea of it. This is after they'd spent the morning popping in and out of high street shops, or rather, the lingerie sections, after Faris shelled out too much money on frilly sheer lace things and kept his fingers lingering on Rhys' side the whole time even through the glances the cashiers threw at them.

Right now, Faris is splayed out on the mattress and Rhys watches him watch him as he watches himself in the mirror, slipping on a pair of cotton-white floral knickers with pink lace trims.

From behind him, Faris mutters, “fucking _hell_ ,” one hand trailing down to his cock and squeezing it lightly through the fabric of his pants.

Rhys looks at himself, at the contrast the pink makes with his milky skin, the little ribbon on the front that only accentuates the curve of his cock pressing against the fabric, and he's not going to lie, he looks _fantastic_ in these.

“Turn around, love,” Faris drawls. “Wanna see you.”

And Rhys does, deliberately slowly, and saunters over to the bed until he's just barely far away enough that Faris won't be able to touch without getting up from his comfortable position.

“Fuck.” Faris licks at his own mouth, tongue flicking obscenely over the curve of his top lip, and pushes himself up on one elbow to plant his large hand onto Rhys' hip. “You're so pretty.”

Rhys smiles down at him and says, “thanks.”

He takes a step back and hooks his thumbs into the knickers' waistband, pushes them down his hips carefully and knows Faris appreciates the view just from how dark his eyes have gotten, and how his hand keeps rubbing slow circles on the bulge in his pants.

“Stop touching yourself,” Rhys insists, and Faris does.

The pair he pulls out next from one of the bags is entirely white, half-sheer lace with a large bow above the bum. Rhys already knows that they're going to make his arse look incredible, and also, how much Faris loves seeing him in white, so he takes his time with putting them on, relishing the feeling of the material dragging over his smooth-shaven legs. He takes a second to adjust his cock, then turns around on the spot slowly, and he appreciates that slow-deep breath Faris sucks in when his back is turned more than anything.

“Your arse looks like sin in these,” Faris says, in that deliberately controlled way he's got when he's really turned on and doesn't want to show it, and Rhys fucking knew it. “Come a bit closer, yeah?”

And Rhys does. He's still just out of Faris' reach, still can only feel Faris' eyes on him, trailing down along his hips and thighs, and maybe that's really his favourite part, not feeling pretty and delicate in his knickers and smudgy eye make up, but being wanted, knowing that all he has to do to drive Faris mental is to slip on some frilly lace and bat his eyelashes. Sometimes he's pretty sure that by now, Faris loves the knickers more than he does.

“Fuck.”

“You know you could just take me if you want, right?” Rhys asks and slides his thumbs into the elastic of the knickers' waistband. “Just pin me down and rip these off with your teeth and have your way with me, and I wouldn't even mind.”

He wouldn't. Faris wouldn't do this, because he's just as determined to be in control of himself as he is to control Rhys, but on the other hand, Rhys wouldn't mind if he did, either. His cock is already half-hard, pressing into the lace and stretching it out, and he really wants to get this over with already and have Faris fuck him into the mattress. He slides the knickers down quickly this time, but he can't resist the temptation of snagging the waistband on his thumb and flicking them onto Faris' chest.

After a second where Faris just stares at him with heavy lidded eyes, he says, “d'you remember the black backless ones? You should put these on next.”

Rhys has to go through about three bags until he finds the pair of knickers Faris is thinking of. They're flimsy see-through with pink ruffles running along the leg holes and only a small ribbon holding the back together, and Faris looks at him like he wants to devour him even when he's only holding them up.

Rhys is careful when he steps into them, and just as he's got the sheer mesh pulled up to mid-thigh, Faris asks, “you know what I think would be hot?”

“What?” Rhys asks back and pulls the knickers into place.

“You only ever get pretty for me.” Faris raises one hand and motions for Rhys to come closer again, a gesture that probably shouldn't make his cock twitch and his hole clench around thin air. “I wanna take you out while you're all dressed up and show you off.”

This time, Rhys gets close enough for Faris to actually take a hold of him. He lets his hands curve onto Rhys' hips, appreciatively runs them up and down and back to Rhys' arse, and just as Faris' fingertips slip under the thin fabric, racing a shiver up his back, the words really get through to Rhys.

“Yeah, why not.”

He hasn't thought about it before, but the way Faris put it, the thought of being showed off, does sound rather appealing to him. Besides, he gets taken for a woman often enough as it is, and he makes a rather attractive one fully prettied up, so he reckons no one would even be able to tell the difference.

“You're so beautiful, Rhys,” Faris says onto the smooth skin just above the trim of the knickers, breath hot and one finger pressing its tip feather-light onto Rhys' hole. “How much more time are you going to spend trying on knickers?”

Rhys hisses out a sharp breath when that finger describes a small circle on his rim, and he wants it, knows how much _Faris_ wants it, and his nails scratch over Faris' scalp. “Not much longer,” he states, and has to resist rolling his hips forward when Faris' mouth attaches to a patch of skin on his soft belly and sucks at it. “Not much at all.”

Faris makes a content humming sound and Rhys can feel him untie the little bow that holds the knickers together, feel the cool air really hit his arse when, the next second, Faris' hands are pulling his cheeks apart. His legs go a little weak when Faris' teeth tug at his knickers just the slightest bit, so he moves all the way onto the bed, knees on either side of Faris' hips.

They kiss quickly, messily, Rhys' fingers still tangled in Faris' thick hair, and when they pull apart, Rhys can't catch his breath for a couple more seconds, already all wound up just from Faris' hands when his cock hasn't even been touched.

“I think I want to eat you out while you wear these,” Faris' voice comes low and gravelly and sexy against Rhys' neck, lips grazing where the collar is digging into his flesh, “make you come with my tongue and my fingers and then fuck your mouth.”

Rhys' hips roll into Faris' touch and he whispers out, “yes, fuck yes,” but really, he doesn't care what's being done to him. He's spent long enough only letting Faris look and not touch already, and now all he wants is to have his hands and mouth and cock all over and inside him, no matter how.

“Would you like that, princess? Have me lick your pretty pussy?” Faris whispers, sounding so, so filthy already, and before Rhys can even reply, he's flipping them both over and pressing Rhys down into the sheets.

“Sounds perfect,” Rhys breathes into Faris' ear and the next second, he connects their lips once again.

 

–

 

So that's how, in the end, Rhys ends up in a crowded club wearing three-inch heels and this little black strapless dress that's just wide enough to swish when he shakes his hips, Faris' hands on his waist keeping him close. They'd been out to dinner earlier that evening, and it had gone more or less the same way it always does, with Rhys leaving the talking and the ordering to Faris, and in fact, he couldn't help but notice that this time, they actually got fewer weird looks than usually. After, when they were walking back to the tube station, they'd passed the club and Faris had suggested going in, and now, now Faris is behind him and moving his hips to the beat of some dirty pop song.

Rhys isn't sure if he wants to be here at all. On one hand, he's got at least five guys tracking his every move, the type of glance that makes it obvious they're all mentally undressing him, picturing him as a flat-chested girl they want to devour and undo and wreck, and then there's the bulge of Faris' dick in his trousers that's pressing against his arse every so often when he grinds his hips back. He's feeling incredibly wanted with all that attention heaped onto him, the most important person in the whole room, and Faris' hands and the collar around his neck are digging into his flesh possessively as if to remind him who he belongs to. Then, on the other hand, the music's shite and Rhys' cock is pressed half-hard against his hip by the black lace of his knickers, so when Faris presses him all the way back against his chest and slurs pretty tipsy words into his ear, Rhys hopes it means they'll get out of here soon.

“What?” he shouts over the thump-thump-thump of the bass, over the haze of flashing lights and fog-machine fog that's clouding his brain. “I can't hear you!”

“What I said,” Faris replies, his voice too loud and too close to Rhys' ear, “is we should go somewhere that's more quiet maybe.”

Rhys spins around in his grip as quickly as he can, skirt swirling around his thighs, and says, “thought you'd never ask.”

He lets Faris drag him away quickly, through the maze of limbs and writhing bodies and noise, and when he realises that where Faris is headed is the toilets, rather than the exit, his cock gives an excited little twitch. The men's room is empty when Faris crowds Rhys against the sink and captures his lips in a bruising-rough kiss, but still, Rhys squirms against the press of his hips and the ring of Faris' fingers around his wrists trapping him there.

“Not here, please,” he breathes out when Faris finally lets off his mouth, the music muffled enough by the thick walls and closed door for him to talk at a normal volume, “what if someone walks in.”

“Want them to walk in on us,” Faris' voice slurs into Rhys' ear, his hips pushing forward and forcing Rhys up onto the counter of the sink, his legs falling open. “Want everyone to see how pretty you are for me.”

Faris hooks his pointer finger into the front of the collar, asking for another kiss, and Rhys tilts his head back and gives him what he asks for, and his other hand strokes underneath Rhys' skirt and up to where the lace trim of the stockings he's wearing meets his thigh. His teeth sink down into Rhys' bottom lip and tug, make him mewl and squirm, and at the same time, that hand wanders further up to where Rhys' cock is pressing now fully hard against his knickers.

“Fuck, babe,” Faris slurs into Rhys' open mouth, thumb rubbing over where drops of precome are staining the fabric, “so wet for me already.” Faris isn't drunk, Rhys knows that, maybe a bit tipsy off the wine, but he's acting like it, like he might forget himself and go past his own limits, and Rhys has to admit it's turning him on. His large hand closes around Rhys' throat, not choking, just claiming, as if Rhys could possibly forget who he belongs to, and he whispers, “you're so pretty.”

The next second, he's back to tugging at the lace where Rhys' knickers meet his thigh, sucking at his mouth like he wants to eat Rhys rather than just kiss him, and Rhys hooks his leg around the back of Faris' thigh. He can't _not_ let it happen, Faris' hand digging into the soft flesh of his thigh and his fingers stroking at his jaw making him grow needy and open and desperate for it sooner than he would've wanted.

“Come on, come on,” he urges between kisses, and then he finally remembers what his hands are for and presses Faris back by his shoulders. “Need your cock.”

When Faris pulls away, his pretty mouth is smudgy with lipstick, and the next second, he's dragging Rhys off by his wrist again. Rhys isn't sure how he makes it to the nearest stall without stumbling and falling, considering he's bad enough at walking in these heels and now, with desperation clouding his brain, his knees give out a bit on every step, but then, as soon as Faris has locked the door, he's being pressed up against the cheap plywood.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pain stinging in the back of his head, but Faris' lips on his neck keep him from being too concerned with that. “Fuck, come on.”

Faris' hand slo- _oooo_ wly strokes up his thigh before it finally yanks at his knickers, shoving them down to his knees, and when his cock springs free, Rhys can't help but let out a sharp hissing noise. His hands go to Faris' belt, open the buckle as quickly as he can manage, and then undo his trousers enough to get his dick out as well, already flushed and hard in his hand. So, so thick, too, makes Rhys' hand look that bit more dainty when he strokes it, and his hole clench at the thought of finally getting it inside him.

“You're very eager about this,” Faris points out, hands finally, finally moving to Rhys' arse and pulling his cheeks open, index finger brushing over his hole.

“I'm _horny_ ,” Rhys replies and it's almost a whine, nerve endings tingling and goosebumps raising on his thighs from the sudden touch to the sensitive skin there. “I was sitting like this for most of dinner, you know.”

“You were hoping for this.”

“Thought you were going to have me for dessert in the toilets at the restaurant, honestly,” Rhys admits, hands tangling in Faris' messy hair just because he knows Faris loves that, loves fingers softly pulling at his scalp, and walking out of the toilets looking freshly fucked, too, because deep down, he's a show off. “D'you have lube?”

“Yeah.” Faris pulls his hands away to reach into his jacket pocket and asks, no, commands, really, “turn around?”

Rhys braces his hands on the stall, and presses most of his upper body against it as well, because he knows that if he won't, Faris is going to slam him into it with full force, and the next second, he can just barely make out the sound of lube being squirted out of its bottle over the soft thump of the music.

“Fuck, you're such a pretty slag,” Faris says, voice low and close to Rhys' ear once again, but this time, the tip of his cock is rubbing slick over his hole along with it.

“Hurry it up, Faris,” Rhys full-on whines, “please?”

And Faris does, he forces most of his length into Rhys in one single thrust, burning and painful and absolutely glorious, Rhys' insides finally filled up like he's been craving. He's already well-stretched from earlier, from sloppily riding Faris' dick after they'd woken up in the early afternoon, but still, he can't keep his eyes from watering and a few sniffles from slipping out.

Faris doesn't stop or falter, though, sets up a steady rhythm to go with the beat of the song that's playing, and his one arm wraps around Rhys' waist over the dress.

“You're so tight,” Faris half-says half-groans, “look so lovely for me when I fuck you.”

He rolls his hips faster, the head of his cock rubbing against Rhys' prostate every odd thrust, and all that Rhys can really do in response is squeak and push his arse back. He's straining to keep his neck straight, in an attempt to keep his head from slamming into the wall every time Faris fucks into him, but then Faris tugs at the leather of his collar with his teeth and he stops caring at all. His head falls against the plywood, skull aching with every shove, and he looks down at himself, his buckling knees with the knickers still around them, the dark material of the stockings and how Faris' grip on him is making the dress wrinkle and bunch oddly. The way it's cut, it falls just so that his dick isn't visible, just so that the illusion is complete.

Faris growls. “You're the prettiest bitch in this place tonight, you know,” his breath hot on Rhys' neck and lips just barely touching the skin there, and says, “got everyone looking at you but you're all mine.”

Rhys would roll his hips back if Faris' grip on him wasn't too strong, wants to get more of that huge cock inside of him, so all he does is open his mouth fish-lipped and silent. He doesn't even think of a reply, doesn't want to speak, all he needs is to be thoroughly fucked and to have Faris' voice in his ear, telling him more, making him feel wanted and ashamed and degraded and beautiful all at once. What he needs is Faris.

“Wish I could fuck you bent over the sink so you can watch yourself in the mirror and see how good you look,” Faris breathes, quickening his thrusts just a slight bit, as if he could read Rhys' thoughts, and his hand finally goes to Rhys' cock, not stroking or squeezing, just loosely cupping, “so every guy who comes in can wish he was fucking you instead.”

Then it's there, the squeeze, Faris' thumb rubbing circles over the head of it, and he says, “and none of them will know if you're really a girl or just a pretty bitch boy.”

Faris' weight drops forward and squeezes Rhys further into the wall, knocks the air from his lungs, and this time when his lips drop open, the only sound that comes out is a series of moans that get lost in the song around them.

 

–

 

They're on tour, somewhere in Europe again, when it happens. It's a few minutes until they're set to go on stage, and Rhys is reapplying his eyeliner at the one mirror backstage. He's been on edge for the whole day, really, shaky with his chest constricting, making it harder for him to breathe. His hands are shaking when he traces the bottom of his eye, somehow without crooking the line, and more so when he's uncapping his wand of mascara. Earlier tonight, he'd contemplated dragging Faris off into an empty corner of the venue and have him fuck him into a wall, or maybe swallow his cock down to the base, anything to take that edge off, but now it's too late and Faris has disappeared off to somewhere.

Rhys is applying mascara to the bottom lashes on his right eye when he hears Tom's voice call his name, and judged by how loudly he's saying it, Rhys guesses that maybe, it wasn't for the first time.

He puts the mascara away and turns around, and only then replies, “what d'you want?”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“If you're okay.”

“Yeah,” Rhys says. He's got the collar hidden underneath his scarf tonight, and at least there's that, the press of the leather into his skin, that's helping him keep his breathing easy and regulated. “Of course I'm okay.”

“Listen,” Tom starts, and his hand comes to sit heavy on Rhys' shoulder. Rhys has to resist the urge to flinch. “Faris isn't here, yeah? You can tell us if he did anything to you.”

From where they're both sitting on the sofa some feet away, Joe and Josh make affirming faces and nod. Rhys' chest is pulled so tight that he's not sure how he's even still breathing. The way he sees it, he prefers it like this, to keep whatever it is they've got a secret, just between him and Faris. He's tried his hardest to hide it, covering the bruises and marks and the collar, but now Tom is looking at him with big wide eyes fixated onto him, and Rhys' insides feel floating and empty, nauseous. As if Faris' actual hand would reach back, he covers the hand print-shaped bruise that's sitting on his hip.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Rhys,” Tom says, and that hand squeezes down onto his shoulder. “Look. We're all in this band together, if Faris ever hurts you we've got a right to know.” Tom's voice is all low and earnest, his eyes still trained on Rhys'. He's barely three inches taller than Rhys, at most, but with how small Rhys feels at that very second, it feels more like three feet. “We can help you get help.”

Rhys is half tempted to play dumb, but that might make it worse, so he says, “thanks, but I don't need help.”

Tom's breath is low and exasperated-sounding and smells like cigarettes. “Rhys,” he starts again. “Has Faris ever hit you?”

“I don't think it's any of your business what Faris and I do.”

That night, when they're on stage, Rhys isn't sure how he makes it through the gig. His fingers tap the keys as they always do, but to his own ears, it sounds strange, different, and he's pretty sure that he's off-key and that Tom's eyes are fixed onto him for the whole set. He's aware that all that is just making it worse, is just going to make Tom think he's right in his suspicions, and all that makes the floating feeling in his gut worse, makes him feel like he's being ripped open.

The only thing that keeps him going is the fact that at one point, Faris stalks over to him and breathes down his neck as he slurs into the microphone, the other hand creeping to his shirt and pulling at the collar, and it's those few short seconds when Rhys feels completely safe and open, completely owned by him.

After they've finished playing, Faris crowds Rhys into the grubby bathroom backstage and kisses him until he can't breathe, and then fucks him while he's carefully balanced on the sink, and when he whispers, “mine,” onto the shell of Rhys' ear at one point, the tears actually start flowing and Rhys rakes his nails up Faris' back in an attempt to distract him.

 

–

 

It's one late evening and they're in Faris' flat, with Rhys spread out on the stupidly fancy black silk sheets, face down with his arse raised up high. He's got to admit that he rather enjoys how they feel on his front, albeit not as much as he likes the fit of the knickers he's wearing tight against his cock. Faris is behind him, straddling his thighs and so, so there even when the only part where they're touching is the soft press of their legs together. Faris has his grip tight on the leash that's wound through the D ring of the collar, though, so there's that, too, the knowledge that if he wants, he can drag Rhys around and make him obey as he pleases, and that thought is enough to get Rhys' face all flushed and his cock half-hard.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Faris asks, and the next second, his thumbs are rubbing soft circles against Rhys' back, just above where the ruffled trim of the knickers is resting.

“Of course I do,” Rhys replies, “I asked you to, didn't I.”

With the way his head is turned, he can just barely make out Faris behind him, stripped down to his pants and hesitantly taking the flogger they've got into one hand. It's a rather lovely flogging paddle that he'd picked, thick and wide with hearts cut into it, so every hit will hurt that bit more. Technically, this is nothing they've never done before. Faris had bent Rhys across his lap and spanked him more than once, but that had always been punishment for Rhys, for kissing strange blokes at clubs or being too loud when they were at risk of getting caught or just for generally playing hard to get and riling Faris up. Not that it had been very effective punishment, mind, since the stinging pain had only ever served to make Rhys squirm and groan and grind his dick into Faris' thigh, but still. This is different, mainly because Rhys had explicitly asked Faris to hurt him this time around, rather than acted out to invite it.

“I don't want to seriously hurt you,” Faris says, all soft and unsure, and lets the thick leather of the paddle trail carefully over Rhys' side.

“But that's what _I_ want.” Rhys leans into the touch and has to hide his smile in his arms folded up in front of him. Honestly, he thinks it's rather cute, those little moments when Faris stops acting all dominant and in control and shows that on the inside, he's still the slightly inexperienced teenager he was when they first started doing this. “If it's too much for me I'll word out, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We'll start with ten smacks,” Rhys decides, because that's usually the amount it takes for him to start breaking down and begging for a cock in him when Faris is using his bare hand, and with the flogger, it should be more than satisfying. “Should be enough.”

“All right.”

The next second, Faris is pulling the knickers down, the cool air of the room really hitting Rhys' bum and making his skin prickle with goosebumps.

“You've a lovely arse, fuck,” Faris breathes.

One hand strokes softly over Rhys' left buttock before he reaches out and smacks it, just barely hard enough to jolt. Rhys bites his lip at that, but it's not near hard enough, not as hard as he wants to get it from the paddle.

“Less talking, more flogging,” he points out and wiggles his arse a bit toward Faris, as if to entice him.

That seems to work, or at least, sufficiently piss Faris off, because the next second, his leash is being yanked backwards harshly, and Faris growls, “shut up.”

The very next second, Rhys can see him raise the paddle, then the sharp slapping sound of leather on skin, and only after that, as if it takes a second for the pain to hit, he feels the sting on his cheek, the flesh throbbing where it's been hit. The same sensation makes his cock twitch where it's still trapped inside his knickers, makes his toes curl and his fingers bite into the sheets.

“Is this right for you?” Faris asks, brandishing the paddle in the corner of Rhys' eye once more.

“It's perfect,” Rhys replies and attempts to shift so he can stick his arse even higher up. “Hit me again.”

Faris does. Rhys has to burrow his face into the pillow on the third blow, dry the small tears that slip from his eyes when the flogger meets his skin, and also, keep his hips from jumping forward and grinding into the mesh of the knickers.

“Fucking hell,” Faris whispers, and his nails rake across the sore skin, irritating it further.

“Come on, keep going.” Rhys' cock has already fattened up, stretching out the knickers around it, but he needs more than that, needs proper touches, touches and ache, so he arches his back down even further.

The next hit comes, and Rhys takes it relatively well, only winces a little and worries his lip between his teeth. It's not until the sixth blow when the pain really gets to him, the flesh of his arse raw and throbbing and painful, fingers tangled so tightly into the sheets they're aching as well. The tears are coming now, too, flowing hot and sticky over his cheeks, but at the same time, his cock is fully hard now, straining against the soft fabric and getting it sticky with precome, and he just needs. Needs more, a lot more, what he needs is to be beaten until his nerve endings all over are on fire, because this isn't enough. Rhys needs Faris' fingers around his cock and Faris' cock deep inside of him and Faris' hand on his throat, needs as much contact as possible, but he knows that everything that happens to him is entirely up to Faris' decision, knows that it's not over yet by far, so instead, he just sniffles.

“Rhys? Do you want me to stop?” Faris' voice is soft, so soft it feels like being mocked, because that's the exact opposite of what Rhys wants. What he wants is.

“No,”  
Rhys replies, soft and watered-down and more of a whine, really, “more, please, I need more.”

He catches himself, how desperate and needy he sounds, and maybe that's why Faris strikes him extra hard on the next blow, so hard that his bones lock up for a split second and the metallic taste of blood enters his mouth. Still, it makes his cock twitch, the friction from the knickers barely enough to stop him from sobbing.

The actual sobs only slip out on the blow after, gross, loud sobs that can't be muffled by Rhys hiding his face in the pillow. At the same time, his hips roll back, the friction of Faris' briefs against his hypersensitive skin only making his need worse, so he sobs some more.

“Sh, princess,” Faris purrs.

His hand tugs at the leash just firmly enough for Rhys to get the idea and turn his head, albeit hesitantly. He's not sure if he wants Faris to see him like this, face sticky and stained with tears and mascara, all undone and in pain and gone. It's not the first time that Faris has completely undone Rhys, has left him shaking and tense and boneless at once, but this is the first time he's actually made Rhys _cry_. Honestly, Rhys isn't sure whether he hates Faris seeing him like this or enjoys _having_ this more.

“Only two more, then it'll be over, okay, love?”

Rhys has to sniffle once again when he sees the way Faris looks at him, eyes dark and heavy, clearly revelling in how much he's wrecked him, but he nods. “Okay.”

He turns his head once more, presses his forehead down into the pillow, and when the next blow hits, he only lets out a soft whimper. He's all the way gone, now, only cares about how the throbbing in his arse mirrors the throbbing of his cock, about that little bit more he needs to finally get relief, and about letting Faris, about Faris' eyes on him, Faris being satisfied with what he's turned Rhys into. It's all about Faris and himself being owned by Faris.

“Fuck,” Faris breathes, his voice heavy with that same need Rhys is feeling all over, “fuck, you're so pretty.”

And with that, before Rhys can whine and complain about Faris stalling, he reaches out and delivers the last blow, swinging the paddle just so that it manages to hit across both of Rhys' cheeks. Then, then it's over and Rhys lets go and completely collapses down into the sheets. The tears are still flowing, his bum still throbbing and irritated, cock still straining hard, but it all gets clouded over in his brain with how soft he's gone, how all that matters any more is that Faris is satisfied with him.

“Rhys? Love? Are you all right?” Faris' hands stroke over the sore flesh, so feather-soft it's soothing. “You've gone all pink. I think I made you bleed a bit.”

Rhys sniffs, and when he says, “'m all right,” it's nothing more than a whimper. He _is_ all right, really, wound up with the need to come and aching, but Faris is softly-softly wrapping his arms around Rhys' middle, folding himself around him and keeping him safe, peppering little kisses onto his shoulders and neck, and like that, he feels completely protected.

“Let me see your face.”

Faris gently-gently eases him from hands and knees onto his side, careful not to put any pressure onto his arse, before he removes the leash from the collar and then makes a move to unbuckle that as well. Rhys lets him, even when he'd rather have it stay on for a little longer, just to remind him he belongs to someone, but he's too tired to protest, and when Faris presses soft kisses onto his neck the next second, he doesn't mind at all any more.

“Rhys, babe, you're still crying,” Faris whispers, his voice all soft and concerned, and his thumb comes up to wipe the tears away.

“I know.”

“You've been so wonderful tonight. So lovely.” Faris kisses Rhys' mouth, soft and half-open because he can't bring himself to close it again, and Rhys doesn't kiss back. “You're always wonderful, love.” He presses soft-soft kisses to Rhys' cheeks, his chin, his forehead, one hand stroking softly down his arm while the other one stays under his chin, because without that, Rhys wouldn't be able to keep his head up. “So wonderful and beautiful and brilliant, I love you.”

And Rhys would relax, the way he always does normally after Faris has undone him like this, except he feels so soft and slack that it would be impossible for him to relax any more, so instead, he just whimpers wordless sounds.

“Does it still hurt?”

Rhys shakes his head, just a slight bit, and this time when he whines, it turns into an actual word. “Faris.”

“What do you want, love?”

“Can you get me off?” Rhys asks, and immediately feels kind of weird for disrupting the tender moment, but then, his dick is still lying fat and hard on his stomach, finally no longer trapped inside the knickers.

“Yeah,” Faris whispers, and when he kisses Rhys again, Rhys has the strength to kiss him back this time. “Of course, babe.”

His hand wraps around Rhys' cock, so big it covers most of it, and tugs softly. The angle is awkward, but still, it only takes a few quick strokes until Rhys comes, finally, finally. His legs tighten and his eyes clench shut, goosebumps rising all over his skin, and then he lies back onto the bed, all finished and empty and satisfied.

“Thank you,” he breathes, reaching one arm out to throw it across Faris' chest, just to keep him there and ensure he won't leave, “for everything.”

“It's all right, love.” Faris moves his clean hand to Rhys' chin and tilts his head the right way to peck the corner of his mouth, and then he says, “I've got to wash my hands and get you cleaned up. Let me just go to the bathroom, I'll be right back, yeah?”

And Rhys wants to say no, wants to keep Faris here with him and just keep him forever, keep _being Faris'_ , but on the other hand, he knows that Faris means it when he says he'll be right back.

“Yeah, all right.”

“D'you want a glass of water?”

“Yeah, I think.”

 

–

 

It's another early morning and Faris is still asleep in Rhys' bed. This morning is cool and dewy and cloudy, the rain from last night left in small puddles around Rhys' feet where he's standing on the balcony. He's shivering, can see the skin of his cold feet slowly turn white and blue, a harsh contrast to the pink polish on his toenails, and the goosebumps run up his legs. He's pretty sure his skin is turning prickly with goosebumps all over, even under last night's knickers and Faris' shirt that he'd slipped on after he woke up. It's one of the ones that are already big on Faris himself, but on Rhys it's so huge, he almost feels like he's drowning in it.  The collar of it hangs down to below his clavicles, the sleeves go to just past his elbows and the hem covers the knickers he's wearing entirely, only stopping at mid-thigh. It doesn't exactly keep him warm, but the fabric is soft and smells like Faris' cigarettes and his sweat and the stinking cologne he wears. As if he's got Faris wrapped around him, as a friendly reminder of who he belongs to, and Rhys isn't sure how much he likes that thought. The balcony is cold, so cold it makes him shudder bone-deep, and he lights another cigarette and is fully aware that it'll make it worse.

He's on the third or fourth drag when he feels Faris' arms wrap around his middle, Faris' chin fitting itself over his shoulder, and he almost drops his fag in surprise.

“Morning, princess,” Faris drawls, voice even slower and deeper with sleep than it normally is.

“Hey,” Rhys replies, his one hand settling across Faris' broad arm on his waist. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to.” Faris is still toasty-warm as if he'd just gotten out of bed, his bare chest warm against Rhys' back, his hands are warm and the bulge of his dick where it's pressing into the dip of Rhys' arse is especially warm. He smells like sweat and sex and sleep. “I like your shirt.”

“Yeah, me too.” Rhys leans back into Faris' touch and relaxes, lets the warmth slowly heat him up. He looks down at his hand on Faris' arm, even his skin tone is warm, soft brown that makes a contrast to both the white and pale blue of Rhys' freezing hand and the hot pink on his stubby nails.

“You know you're basically my girlfriend by now, right?” Faris asks. “With your knickers and make up and now you're wearing my shirt, too.”

Rhys isn't sure what to say, so he just laughs softly and reaches out to stub his cigarette out on the balcony's banister.

“Fuck, you're freezing.”

“Yeah,” Rhys replies, teeth chattering just a small bit. “It's cold.” He frowns a bit, because it's true, he's just as cold as he was before Faris showed up, Faris himself only getting colder against his back instead of warming him up.

“We should go inside.”

Faris keeps his hand resting on the small of Rhys' back the whole time as he leads him into the living room. They sit on the sofa and Faris almost immediately leans into Rhys' side.

“You're still so cold,” he says after it's been quiet for a small while, one hand on Rhys' knee, large and warm, and Rhys nods. “D'you want me to make tea?”

“You don't have to,” Rhys says and lies down onto the sofa, so he's on his back with his head propped up on a throw pillow and his feet dangling down over the edge. Faris is already warm again, and all that Rhys wants at that moment is for him to stay, to warm him up as well, so he tugs at his wrist. “Stay here.”

“All right.”

Faris is careful when he moves to lay himself on top of Rhys, only lets his weight settle down very slowly, and his face immediately goes to Rhys' neck, burrowing in the skin there. His arms wrap around Rhys' waist once more and for a second he just stays there, as if he wants to breathe Rhys in. “Gonna warm you up.”

“Mm.”

Faris is heavy and warm and his hair is tangled when Rhys threads his fingers into it. He slowly, slowly moves his one leg to bracket Faris' hips, and then they're all tangled together. It's nice.

“I had a dream about you tonight,” Faris says after a few seconds.

“Mm,” Rhys goes once again. “What kind of dream?”

“The dirty kind.” Faris sniggers softly against Rhys' collarbone, and Rhys laughs along just because and brings his arm up to lay across the broad expanse of Faris' shoulders.

“Best kind of dream.”

“Yeah.” Faris lifts his head and connects their lips together, soft and brief. When he pulls back, he says, “I dreamed that I had you on your back. And you were all soft and shaky and gasping and trying to beg.”

Rhys sighs a bit and has to resist the urge to grind his hips up against Faris. He rather enjoys that mental image, thinking about himself all submissive and too-far-gone and spread out, his favourite state to be in, and he can't help but already get excited by the thought of a second round.

“What did you do to me in your dream?”

“Well.” Faris hides his face in Rhys' neck, as if he's ashamed of what he's about to say. “I dreamed I was fucking you and choking you at the same time. With my hand around your throat.”

At that, a long deep shiver runs down Rhys' spine, and this time, his hips actually do rise up from the sofa a bit. “Wow,” he breathes, and tries his hardest to make it sound like he's not overly interested.

Faris pulls away and looks up at him with big dark eyes. “Do you think that's weird or anything?” His voice is soft and sleepy and hesitant, like he's legitimately concerned Rhys might be put off by his words, and Rhys has to smile at his face and kiss him for a few soft moments. This is his favourite Faris, the one that's all his and kind of insecure and not sure what he's doing, and Rhys wants to keep him forever.

When he pulls away, he says, “well, yeah, of course it's weird,” and then adds, “not the bad kind of weird, I mean.”

He's got to admit that he hasn't really thought about it yet, but he enjoys the thought a _lot_ , Faris holding him down and restricting his air supply, giving up even that last bit of control. Some nights, when he's been bad and needs punishment, Faris will buckle the collar up tighter than it should be, make it harder for him to breathe, but that's nowhere near what this entails, nowhere near what Rhys just realised he's been craving.

“So do you think,” Faris starts and then stops to turn his face away once more. “Do you think you'd let me actually do that to you?”

“If you want to,” Rhys says and pulls him just that little bit closer to really feel him, “I think I'd definitely like it if you did that to me.”

Faris makes a content humming noise and buries his face in Rhys' neck once again, but then his voice comes muffled, “I still need to shower.”

Rhys scratches at his scalp where he still has one hand firmly on the back of Faris' head and listens to him purr. Underneath the shirt and knickers, his skin has gone gross and sticky with last night's sweat and come, and besides, maybe a good slow shag under the hot water would warm him up properly. “Mind if I join you?”

 

–

 

So they're in Europe, still, and this is a few days, maybe a week after Tom had cornered Rhys in the dressing room. Since then, they hadn't been able to sneak away for a shag, not even a quick hand job or blow job in a backstage toilet, and whenever they were around the other guys, which was pretty much all the time, Rhys could feel Tom's or Joe's or Josh's eyes shooting daggers at him whenever he did as little as stand next to Faris.

Now, though, now they've managed to somehow stay behind at the venue while the rest of the band went to explore whatever city they're playing that night – Switzerland, Rhys is sure they're in Switzerland – and Rhys is slowly, ever so slowly sinking down onto Faris' cock. He lets his hips drop slowly, centimetre by centimetre, and judged by Faris' face, by his pretty plump bottom lip caught between his teeth and the look in his eyes, he's going too slow. Even then, when he finally bottoms out, he still has to take a second to settle down in Faris' lap and hiss out a deep breath.

“Okay?” Faris asks, his voice heavy with sex, and his finger traces over where Rhys' hole is all stretched out.

“Yeah,” Rhys whisper-says and experimentally rocks his hips back and forth, still all too slowly. Faris' dick grinds against his insides and over his prostate, sending deep, deep chills up his spine, and he groans. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to just how _huge_ Faris is, filling him up and stretching him out. It's almost painful, really, but the sweetest kind of pain that makes his breath hitch and runs little pleasurable shivers up his dick.

Faris' thumbs rub circles into his skin where his hands are up Rhys' half-undone shirt, resting on his waist, as if to tell him to take his time with adjusting, so Rhys carefully raises his hips and thrusts back down once more.

This time, Faris groans, fingers squeezing down a bit while his hips twitch, and Rhys hisses along with him when the change in angle causes Faris' dick to press right up against his prostate for a long few seconds. Rhys rocks his hips a second time and relishes the feeling of Faris' big cock filling him, how Faris' face softens with gratification into a small smile, and he can't help but smile back.

Faris moves forward to close the gap between them and connect their lips together for one short, tender moment, and when he pulls back, he says, “fuck. I've missed this.”

Rhys sets up a soft, slow rhythm, rolls his hips in tight circles just so to make the head of Faris' dick rub over his prostate every other thrust, and Faris just lets him. He sinks back into the upholstery and doesn't even buck his hips back a little, and Rhys isn't sure if he likes it like this.

What he wants, what he craves after the last few days of no sex, he needs Faris to flip them both over and fuck him thoroughly into the upholstery where plenty of other people have probably already been fucked, but he knows better than to ask Faris for favours. If Faris wants a slow fuck, he gets one. Instead, Rhys points out, “it's been less than a week.”

“Eight days.” Faris' hands dig tighter into his hips and tug and pull Rhys onto his cock in time with his downward thrusts, and like that, the rhythm speeds up a bit, forces a tiny gasp from Rhys' mouth every time Faris' dick rakes over his prostate.

“Really?” he asks when he's gotten his breathing back in check, and Faris nods back at him.

His big hand goes to the back of Rhys' neck and gently guides their lips together once again, but with the other one, he keeps guiding Rhys to speed up.

“You've gone all tight from not fucking me,” he observes, in this soft and quiet way that he'll say completely obscene things, and Rhys has to smile at that.

Faris' hands are unfocussed, stroking up Rhys' side and down his back, trying to get to as much of him as possible, maybe, before they finally slip up his shirt once more and pull his cheeks apart that bit further when he's already stretched out, one finger tracing his sensitive rim.

“Such a tight pretty pussy you've got.” Faris looks up at Rhys all expectantly, mouth caught half-open with tiny sighs, and Rhys curls his fingers around his jaw and kisses him once more, slick and messy and needy, a harsh contrast to just how gently they're fucking.

Rhys rocks down a bit faster, tries to impale himself on Faris' cock even further than he already is on every downward thrust, moves his hips in tight little circles, but even then, that's still not enough. What he needs is for Faris to wreck him, to feel his hips slapping against his arse and his fingers leaving bruises, he needs as much as Faris can possibly give him. At that thought, the moans start to bubble out of his mouth, soft and slow and desperate, and as much as he tries, he can't hold them back, so he just keeps letting them out and Faris eats them up straight from his lips. Faris' mouth is swallowing Rhys up, it feels like that, keeps connecting to his with soft plump lips and teeth tugging hectic at his lips as if to keep him from pulling away, and Rhys wouldn't even think of it. He keeps his mouth working with Faris', feels his lips grow puffy and sore from kissing and feels the steady push and pull of their hips against each other build him to a high, just lets it happen for what feels like minutes.

It's good, but not as mind-bendingly great as Rhys wants it to be, so as soon as Faris finally lets off his mouth, the first thing spilling from his mouth is, “more, come on. I need more.”

Faris laughs, just for a short second, and whispers, “bossy bitch,” into Rhys' neck, but his fingers move back to where they were on Rhys' hips.

The next time he tugs Rhys down onto his cock, his hips snap up at the same time, not going deeper than before, but harder, and Rhys feels like bursting, all filled up like that, and he groans.

“Fuck.”

His toes curl and uncurl with the sudden intensity of the shivers running up his spine, his legs shaking, but he manages to use them to push himself up and down on Faris' dick that much faster. He's already pretty close, can feel it slowly building in the pit of his stomach, and judged by the dazed look on his face and how much harder his hands are pulling at Rhys' hips,  Faris is too, the plane of his chest sticky with sweat when Rhys braces his hands on it for leverage.

“I want you again tonight after our set, I think,” Faris says between two especially quick thrusts, in that unexpectedly gentle tone again, and it makes Rhys shiver more so than being fucked this hard does. “Need to catch up on everything I've missed.”

“Mm, maybe,” Rhys breathes out after he's halfway caught his breath, but it comes out sounding more like a garbled moan. His hands begin to slip, so he digs them into Faris' skin, feels the groan that pushes out of his mouth, and then he says, “Tom knows about us, you know.”

He doesn't really mean to say it, or maybe he does, because Faris is a much better fuck when there's something riling him up, and he gets what he asked for, which is Faris scratching long, deep lines down his hip with one hand while pulling him closer by the nape of his neck with the other. Faris' teeth sink into his neck just below the collar and leave a mark, and when he pulls back, when the mark is throbbing angrily, he says, contrastingly soft, “does he now.”

“He does.” Faris' hand returns to Rhys' arse, fingertips trailing just where his cock is sliding in and out, and Rhys continues, “he's been watching us.”

Faris laughs. “You reckon he's jealous?”

His hips buck up harder than before, at a slightly different angle, and Rhys isn't sure how he manages to bite back the moan that threatens to slip out of him when Faris' dick rubs right over his prostate.

“He thinks you've been hitting me.”

“Funny what people think.”

Faris' fingers hook under the collar and pull him forward to kiss him once more, and when he pulls back, the first two fingers of his other hand are right at Rhys' lips, and Rhys doesn't need to be instructed any further. He sucks them straight down to the knuckle, swirls his tongue around them to get them properly wet, and when Faris groans, he bobs his head a bit just for show.

“You're such a dirty little girl,” Faris says, his voice dark and dirty, but still soft as if to make it obvious that it's supposed to be a compliment, and then he adds, “and Tom's an idiot.”

He pulls his spit-slick fingers away from Rhys' mouth, so abruptly that it leaves a small string of saliva clinging to his lips, and when they kiss once again, those fingers are prodding at his hole.

“Come on, princess,” Faris says, smooth and slick and sexy, and Rhys is so far gone, his cock slapping aching-hard and untouched against his stomach on every thrust, his whole body tight and ready to come. Faris says, “want you to come for me.”

It only takes the tips of both fingers to slip in, carefully pressing Rhys more open than he already is, and he does, slowly and aching with one long keen, his dick pulsing out splutter after splutter of milky come over Faris' abs.

Faris sighs, so deep it's barely audible, and Rhys can feel his dick twitch all too clearly with how crowded his hole is, feel him finish inside.

They sit there for a few long seconds after, when Faris has pulled his fingers back out and swiped them through the mess on his own stomach, letting his dick soften inside Rhys while he's feeding the sticky fluid on his fingers back to him, and it's soft, intimate, despite how inherently depraved it feels.

“I've got to take a shower,” Rhys says, finally, “clean myself up.”

“Then take a shower.” Faris looks up at him with this strange look on his face, completely devoted, and says, “you shouldn't listen to Tom, yeah?”

 

–

 

In total, it took maybe a month for it to stop feeling weird. The first few times Rhys took Faris back to his flat, after that initial night when they'd both been too drunk to hold back, it was awkward, fumbling, with neither of them really sure at what point they were supposed to stop talking and start kissing. The sex had been hesitant, careful, Rhys definitely aware of the fact that they were crossing a line, and judged by his touches, by the look on his face, Faris felt the same way.

Really, Rhys shouldn't have expected anything different. Faris was what, three and a half years younger than him, still had that teenage clumsiness in his touches and words, and really, Rhys hadn't bothered with asking but he was pretty sure Faris had never been with another man before that. In some sense, he'd been just Rhys' type, the inexperienced young guy he could teach to fuck him just how he needs it, but on the other, Faris was also completely different from most of the other guys Rhys had hooked up with before. That first night, he'd treated Rhys like a doll, maybe some other toy, had folded him in half and shut him up with fingers in his mouth and fucked him thoroughly into oblivion, had called him a slag and a little bitch and left bruises, and after, Rhys had felt more open and undone than he had in ages, completely relaxed even when he was aching all over.

Yeah, he'd known that he wanted to fuck Faris for quite some time, but he didn't know he needed it like that, messy and angry and careless, so that's why he took Faris back to his flat again after their next rehearsal, and then once more after they'd spent the evening out at the pub. Then, the sex had been soft and slow, too slow, when all Rhys really wanted was for Faris to fuck him the way he did the first time, wanted to bring that side out once more.

The other thing about Faris that made Rhys want him was, he was incredibly _big_ , not just in the obvious way, but he was taller than Rhys, broader, his hands so huge they nearly wrapped around Rhys' completely when he had them pinned against the shower wall, and when he was using Rhys, moving him as he pleased and fucking him so good it almost hurt, that insecurity that he usually had was completely gone, and Rhys was more attracted to this second, different Faris than he liked to admit.

It took maybe a week full of boring awkward sex for him to say it out loud, when Faris was fucking him on the edge of the bed one late night. That night was a fast fuck, heated and sticky like the air of the room, with Faris' hands on his thighs, grinding him back against his cock, and then there was the point where Faris bent down, far enough to get his mouth working against Rhys' ear, “you like this? Like getting it like this?”

And Rhys keened, louder and higher than he had previously, and replied, “yeah, fuck, fuck. But.”

“ _But_ , what? What do you want?”

Rhys brought his hand up to tug at Faris' hair, to rile him up, maybe. “Want you to go rough on me. Real hard,” and like that, it was like a switch being hit.

Faris' fingers tightened bruising-hard around Rhys' thighs, shoved him further back onto the bed so he himself could get onto the mattress as well and snap his hips forward that bit faster. The next second, his hand was on Rhys' throat, not choking, just holding him still, teeth at his jaw, and Rhys simply couldn't keep the moans and incoherent splutters from spurting out of his mouth, couldn't keep his nails from scratching up Faris' back until Faris made a point of gathering both his wrists in one huge hand and pinning them above his head, hissing, “quiet, you slag,” and that, in turn, sent too many chills down Rhys' spine.

It took another few weeks or so until Rhys actually decided to bring up the concept of being _owned_ , a few weeks he mostly spent shagging Faris and struggling to cover up the bruises no matter how hot the weather got outside, and by then, they were on tour again, just a few small gigs, nothing big. They had a hotel in one city, really more of a travelogue, and that night, after they'd returned from the venue, Rhys was riding Faris on the soft carpet next to the bed, skin-slapping hard and fast with Faris' hands digging into his waist and pulling him down further. Faris had been sloshed that night, both of them, and his pretty red mouth had been this steady stream of, “mine mine mine mine mine,” growled quietly under his breath, eyes glazed over both with drunkenness and appreciation, and that seemed like an appropriate moment for Rhys to say it.

“Fuck, Faris, I.” He braced his hands further up on Faris' chest, took that second to try and get his breathing back in check, “you should fuck me like you own me.”

“What d'you mean?”

“Like I'm yours to use.”

“But you are,” Faris said, very matter-of-fact, and the next second, his hands were cradling Rhys' back and gathering him close, flipping them both over so he could really drive in and devastate Rhys. “All mine.”

Rhys laughed at him and wasn't sure why, whether it was the way the alcohol and the sudden movement had made his head spin, or how earnest and simple Faris' answer was, the look on his face, all oblivious and wide-eyed and making it that bit more obvious just how young he was, or maybe the fact they were even doing this, having sex, but Faris shut him up with his mouth against Rhys' own and one hand around his throat, and with that, the topic seemed to be over.

Faris didn't bring it up again until after the end of that tour, when they were back at Rhys' flat and tangled together in the sheets, both still damp from the shower they'd just taken.

“So,” he started after it had been quiet for a few minutes, after Rhys was half convinced he might have fallen asleep.

Rhys simply hummed in response.

“About what you were saying in the hotel the other night.”

“What do you mean?” Rhys asked, not to play dumb, but because he'd had doubts that Faris even remembered that particular part of that night.

“About wanting me to own you. What'd you mean by that?”

“You know, just. Being yours.” Rhys turned until he could hide his face in Faris' chest, and then he said, “and you'd be able to control me, like, completely. When we're in bed and when we aren't.” He listened to Faris' breathe quietly, felt his chest heave with it, and said, “and I could wear a collar to show that I'm being owned, you know. Things like that.”

Faris didn't say anything for a long while, and when Rhys looked up, he was still awake, eyes focussed on Rhys' face.

“I'm sorry if this sounds weird for you.”

“It kind of does, yeah.” Faris' fingers pet over Rhys' hair, catching on the wet strands, and Rhys flinched a bit. “Like you want me to abuse you.”

“It's not _abuse_ ,” Rhys insisted and went back to resting his head on Faris' chest. “Just handing over some control.” He moved that bit closer to Faris, took in his body heat and how his clean skin smelled different even when they'd been using the same soap, and said, “and I wouldn't let you do anything to me like hit me unless we'd discussed it beforehand.”

“So you want me to hit you,” Faris repeated and sounded almost horrified by the thought.

“Not that, maybe.” Rhys hummed and said, “maybe spank me. Really make me hurt.”

“Why would you let me do that?”

“'cause you own me. And it's relaxing.”

“You've done this with anyone before?”

“My last boyfriend.” Rhys thought back to that and added, “before the band.”

“I don't know.” Faris stroked over Rhys' hair again, and then said, “I don't know much about this whole thing.”

“You could look it up. We can go over it together.”

“And I don't want to really hurt you,” Faris said, voice all soft and hesitant.

Rhys couldn't help but laugh at him, and he moved that slight bit to completely straddle Faris' hips. He couldn't help but get a bit turned on by the whole prospect of that, of Faris owning him, Faris hurting him, just the right amount, and he figured they might as well go in for a second round now.

“'s what the safeword is for. If it gets too much.”

“What d'you mean?” Faris asked, his face soft still, but his hands were already moving down to Rhys' arse.

“I'll explain later, yeah?” Rhys said, before closing the gap between them, and Faris made an affirming soft noise into the kiss.

 

–

 

Faris finishes tying the last knot on the rope.

“All right. Can you still move?”

Rhys shrugs as good as he can, with both his hands tied above his head, and then moves his wrists against the restraints. The rope is just loose enough to not cut off his circulation, just enough for him to move his wrists a bit, but still tight enough to rub painfully into the skin with every slight motion.

“You really want to do this?” Faris asks, eyes turned downward to focus on Rhys'.

Really, if Rhys had to guess by his face, he'd assume that between the two of them, Faris is the more nervous one. He can't help but smile when he says, “of course I want to do this. You?”

“I'm not sure,” Faris says, and there it is.

“You're the one who suggested it in the first place.”

“Yeah, but. What if I hurt you,” Faris says, all small and vulnerable, and it isn't a question.

“You're not going to hurt me.” Rhys tilts his face up, beckons for a kiss from Faris as some mean of reassuring him, and Faris leans down and obliges.

“Safeword is 'cup'.”

“Cup,” Rhys repeats. It's the word they always use, but this is probably the farthest they've gone so far, the most out there, and besides, Faris always gets like this, all careful and insistent about boundaries, when they're trying something new. Rhys has to admit it's kind of cute, in a way.

“What if you're too far gone to talk and you want me to stop?”

“I could raise two fingers or something.”

“Okay. Two fingers.” Faris presses another kiss to Rhys' mouth and settles in between his open legs. Rhys' skin is already shivered with anticipation, that and how cold the room is around them, so when Faris lays his full weight on top of him, slowly, slowly, so much warmer than his own, he can't help but hiss.

“Let's get you ready,” Faris says into the crook of Rhys' neck, presses a kiss onto the skin there, and another one right below it.

Rhys hums in affirmation. Really, he doesn't want to wait much longer, wants for Faris to get on with it already, but if Faris is going to be like this, is going to trail soft kisses down his chest and hold his hips down tight with both hands, Rhys supposes he can't do much else. Besides, there's a lovely shiver running along his spine when Faris pauses to flick his tongue across one nipple, making it pebble up hard in the cool air, and then again when his nails pinch it just a bit. The next thing, Faris moves down lower, lower, along the very edge of Rhys' heaving ribcage and down to his soft belly, lips moving in small, soft patterns all over his skin. His pink tongue darts out and traces a stripe from the waistband of Rhys' knickers up to his navel, dips into it briefly, and when that makes an itchy wave of pleasurable feelings run under Rhys' skin, he has to resist the urge to buck his hips.

Rhys keeps his eyes fixed on Faris' when he raises his head and smiles up at him, before he goes back to pressing a chain of wet kisses to Rhys' hips just above the knickers. The fingers of his one hand pull and pinch at the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, nails digging into the skin in such a way that Rhys knows there'll be burning-red crescents left after they're done. It's close, so close to his cock but not quite, the sting of it only making him harden quicker, feels like being lit up, in a weird sense, and when Faris moves his mouth to suck at the marks, Rhys' hips actually do jump up. He gets Faris' large hands for that, short fingernails scratching red lines where his pelvic bones are jutting out above the knickers, and has to gasp, struggling only barely against the tight hold.

“You look so pretty when you're tied up,” Faris says, his voice already heavy with need. It's about as needy as Rhys feels with his dick pressed into his hip, the tight lace of the knickers just enough touch to keep him from getting completely desperate, but not near enough to be in any way satisfying. Rhys makes a point of wiggling his wrist up against the rope holding them in place, feels it rub his skin sore and open, the burning pain of the abrasion taking at least some of the edge off. His legs shake, though, both from the amount of sensation, pain and pleasure and pent-up need from the fact that Faris hasn't fucked him in three days now, and Faris chuckles deep under his breath and holds them down by his thighs. “D'you think the next time I should tie your ankles, too?” his voice comes against the spit-sticky skin of Rhys' stomach, before his tongue darts out again and licks right along his waistband.

It stops right before it can get too close to his cock, Faris pulls off and instead breathes hot over the head of it, and the whine that comes out of Rhys' mouth at that is downright embarrassing.

Faris grins up at him and hooks a single finger into the leg of the knickers, pulling them away so even that last bit of stimulation is gone from Rhys' cock, and says, “what d'you think about that?” and only then Rhys realises that it wasn't a rhetorical question.

“Why not,” he replies, voice so soft it's barely more than a breathe, and that's almost embarrassing as well, how easy it is for Faris to get him all undone and soft. Already, he can feel the fuzz creeping up to cloud his brain, feel that it probably won't be much longer until he goes completely under.

As if to prove his point, Faris' hands move down to Rhys' thighs and clamp around them, effectively fixing Rhys down to the bed, and Rhys isn't sure if it's that or the look on his face, all self-satisfied and superior, that makes his skin prickle with excitement that much more.

“You'd like that, princess? Like it if I tied you down so you can't move at all? Take complete control?” Faris asks, mouth attaching to the fabric of the knickers again, getting it all gross with spit, but still pointedly avoiding Rhys' cock.

“'f course I'd like that,” Rhys replies, and when Faris actually begins to pull the knickers down with his teeth, he has to shut his eyes to keep himself from getting too excited at that sight.

He can feel Faris slip the flimsy fabric further down, over his cock, feels Faris' nose brush along the inside of his thigh and his breath fan out over the sensitive skin of his balls, and his knees go weak, his legs shake once again until Faris has to hold them down.

“Don't move, okay, love?” he asks, and it's not really a request, more of an order.

Rhys feels mildly ashamed at that, at his complete lack of self-control, the blood rushing into his cheeks and clouding his brain. He has to twist his wrists up into their bindings once again. “Okay.”

Faris sucks a bruise onto the inside of Rhys' hip, the line where his pelvis curves into his groin, and hums. His hands go down to Rhys' arse and lift him up a bit, just enough for him to rip the knickers down to his thighs, and then he slides them all the way off. The cool air of the room only hits Rhys' cock fully now, makes his skin tighten and reminds him of how hard he is at once, precome wetting the skin of his belly. He's got this urge to buck his hips up into the empty space, to make Faris get on with it and do something to him already, but at the same time, that blurry need to be good and do what Faris asks of him is stronger than the want to be touched, so he doesn't move.

Faris settles back between his legs, now, carefully hooks his hands under Rhys' thighs to bend them upward and spread them apart for easier access, and the next second, he's slouching down so all he has to do is bob his head a bit to put his mouth on Rhys' cock or his hole. His hole's already tingling a bit, even when Faris hasn't gotten remotely close to touching it, but Rhys is already impatient to be stretched open once more.

“You're so soft all over,” Faris observes while he's pressing his lips feather-soft to the inside of Rhys' knee, then trails a whole series of kisses up his leg.

“My dick's not _soft_ ,” Rhys insists, even through the haze around his brain, and he can't help but laugh at the remark.

Faris laughs back against his inner thigh, the vibration of it tickling the soft skin, and licks along the crease where Rhys' leg joins up with his crotch, an unexpectedly sensitive patch of flesh. “You're right, it isn't,” he says, both his mouth and fingers still making a point of not touching Rhys' cock, but now his breath is fanning over his balls again. “Still so lovely.”

Rhys looks down at him, and judged by the look on his face, Faris is about ready to destroy him, to open him up and turn him into a quivery, shaking mess, his lips all messy with saliva and his eyes dark, fingers gripping Rhys' thighs a bit too hard. He wants to ask Faris to get on with it, that urge to be touched all over and turned inside-out taking over even the need to be a good girl, the knowing that if he stays still and lets Faris take his time he'll be rewarded for it later on.

It takes his jumbled brain a few seconds to get the words together, seconds during which Faris keeps pressing tiny licks and kisses all around Rhys' groin except for his actual cock, and then it finally comes out, “come on, Faris, stop teasing.”

Faris pulls away and stares back at him, looking almost shocked that Rhys could ever ask that of him, and says, “now, now.” His one arm stretches up to slip a finger into the D ring of the collar and tug, and he continues, his voice all cold and superior and generally _mocking_ , “didn't think you were in any position to order me around, love.”

He tugs at the collar, makes it go a little bit tighter around Rhys' throat and makes him gasp in anticipation of how much more of that he's going to get later on, and Rhys replies, “I'm sorry, Faris.”

“Apology accepted.”

Faris pulls his hand away from the collarbone and brings it back down to himself, but not before he takes a moment to pinch Rhys' one nipple, already overly sensitive from his mouth on it. He spreads Rhys out a little wider, so much his legs strain, and kisses the inside of his thigh once more.

“You've got the loveliest pussy, you know,” Faris says, voice noticeably heavier, and then his lips are right on Rhys' hole, pressing a soft kiss onto it. “Want to taste it.”

With that, Faris is canting Rhys' hips up that bit further, both hands underneath his arse, and then he's finally going in for it, tongue swishing over Rhys' hole softly before it dips in.

And Rhys breathes, he sucks in so much air it ends up sounding like a cross between a hiss and a sigh, the wet feeling of Faris' tongue breaching his insides finally giving him the gratification he's been craving, legs tingling and cock stiffening that bit more. He brings one shaky leg up and lays it across Faris' back, for that bit of extra leverage, so he can rub his hips back again Faris' face and make sure he doesn't stop, which he doesn't. Faris loves this, Rhys knows that, loves having Rhys all over him and slowly losing his composure when he's holding his cheeks apart and fucking him open with his tongue, and Rhys swears he can feel the motion of Faris' hips grinding into the bed underneath him.

This sound that's a bit begging him to stop and a bit pleading for him to continue leaves Rhys' mouth when Faris sucks at his hole, teeth digging into the rim, and he hums, mouth pulling off to kiss a sloppy trail back up to Rhys' balls.

“You're so pretty,” he says, all soft and praising, this look on his face like he's never had anything better, “could do this to you all day,” and then he's sucking one into his wet mouth.

Rhys actually keens at that, the feeling of Faris' tongue working over the sensitive skin there almost more painful than it's pleasurable, but it's making his nerves flare up either way, hips working back into it and stomach tightening. Faris pulls off before it can get too much, before he's too close to coming, and goes back to Rhys' hole, swirling his tongue around it once before he's working in his first finger. It's a tight fit, even when Rhys is already somewhat open from his tongue, too long since he's had anything inside him, since Faris has _let_ him, and it's so, so much, the burn and the stretch and Faris' mouth sucking at his perineum and tonguing his rim, too much. Faris curls his finger just like that, to get at his prostate, and Rhys literally squeaks, his muscles lock up automatically and his leg draws Faris' head that bit closer against him. His hole clenches, too, but then Faris licks around it once again and it loosens back up, enough for him to get another finger inside, and Rhys whines and whimpers shapelessly. What he wants is more, more than those two fingers prodding and twisting and nudging around inside him can give, he's aching for Faris' cock inside of him, stretching and hurting and filling him up, and then Faris' mouth goes up to his cock and folds around the tip, burning and wet, and his fingers twist just like that and Rhys _shouts_.

Faris looks up at him with big dark eyes and hums, lips sinking down a bit further on Rhys' dick, his mouth soft velvet and his fingers are still working, and it's all too much and no, _no_ , Rhys doesn't want to come this soon. Not before the main event.

“Faris,” he breathes, hips coming to a stop slowly, “Faris, hang on.”

There's a filthy popping sound when Faris pulls off his dick, “what?” and right then, maybe because of the small, soft voice Faris is saying it in, Rhys realises something.

“Faris, you're stalling.”

Again, “what?”

“You are.”

Rhys unfolds his leg from where he had it wrapped around Faris' head, and that seems to get the message across because now Faris is sitting up and pulling his fingers out slowly-slo _ooo_ wly. He wipes his mouth on his hand and asks, “what d'you mean?”

“Faris.” Rhys would reach one hand out, but the bindings are still keeping him from really moving too much. “Does this make you nervous?”

Faris doesn't reply except for a small, “well.” He looks so small where he's kneeling between Rhys' legs, small and insecure and completely lost like he hasn't looked for a long time since they started this thing now, and Rhys feels so bad for him, and also, bad for putting him in this situation.

“It's all right if it does.” Rhys nudges Faris' side with one knee, it's all he can do, and Faris just looks at him. “You're allowed to word out, too, you know?”

“Yeah.” Faris slowly moves back down, laying his full weight on top of Rhys, and then he's fingering the collar and beckoning for Rhys to kiss him, so Rhys obliges. “Yeah, no.”

“What, no?”

“I want to do this.” Faris' hands travel down along Rhys' torso, down to his hips, and spread him out that little bit further. “If it's what you need, then I'll do it.”

“Okay,” Rhys replies, and this time, when he looks, Faris is back to normal, to the confident self he puts on when they're doing this. “Remember, if you get too uncomfortable...”

“If I get too uncomfortable I'm wording out. Yeah.” Another kiss, soft and quick, and Faris says, “and if I go too hard on you you're raising your two fingers, okay?”

“Okay,” Rhys says again. He bumps his forehead against Faris' for a short second and watches him as he leans over to grab the lube from the bedside, his insides already a bit tingly with anticipation.

Faris goes quick, now, squirts the liquid onto his palm and spreads it onto his cock before he applies it to where Rhys is already somewhat open, _coldcoldcold_ , and then he's pushing in before Rhys really has the time to prepare himself for the moment.

He's still so tight, and really, it's _always_ a tight fit, but this time it's worse, when Faris' large hands go to tug Rhys back against his dick he can't help but arch his back and hiss. Faris is splitting him open, tearing at his insides, ache, ache, the best kind of ache, and Rhys relishes it, nails dug into his palms and hips pushing upward. There's tears welling up in his eyes, just a little, and he blinks them away.

“You all right?” Faris asks, and Rhys can't help but be embarrassed by the sniffle that slips out.

“'f course I am.” Rhys circles his hips experimentally, stretches himself out a bit further on Faris' cock, and when it rubs over his prostate, he sucks in a harsh breath. “You're just so big.”

Faris looks down at him and grins, all sleazy and satisfied with himself, slowly thrusting in and out now, and then he says, “'m sorry.”

“It's all right.”

Rhys stretches one leg to bring it around Faris' hips and get a better angle that way, and then Faris really starts moving, hips snapping back and forth at a normal pace. It's too fast, really, the switch too abrupt, and it's painful, but then, painful is how Rhys likes it. He whines when Faris gets a good thrust in, his dick grinding along that spot for a long second, and then he can already feel the pit of his stomach tightening, his nerve endings tightening up, and, hang on, hang on.

“Come on, Faris,” he breathes, how oddly appropriate, he's breathing when he shouldn't be, when he doesn't want to be, and only then he notices, Faris' hand is trailing up from where it was on his hip to his neck, fingers pressing softly against the collar. Yes. “Get on with it.”

“I'm getting on with it,” Faris replies, and then he does it, his hand moves to just above the soft leather, just below the edge of Rhys' jaw, and presses down.

And.

His hips keep snapping forward, pressing harsh breath after harsh breath out of Rhys' mouth, keen after keen, except now his high-pitched little sounds of pleasure-pain are getting quieter and quieter and it's getting harder to breathe. Faris is watching him, that little glint in his eye when he's really gotten into that headspace he gets, the one where he's completely taking ownership over Rhys, and Rhys shivers at the thought, feels the fuzzy slip back into his brain and his cock twitch. He tries to use his mouth, tries to deliberately moan or say something or otherwise imply for Faris to continue like this, with all his voice all gone from his silent sighs now, but no sound comes out even when he really tries.

And.

And then, Faris' hand fully squeezes down on his airways, leaves him gasping away uselessly, and within the next few seconds that fuzz is creeping up on his vision, too, blurs it at the edges, and Faris is lighting him up, pushing him closer to the edge with every shove of his hips, and he's still watching, self-satisfied and also concerned and also so obviously _close_ , and Rhys is sweating, shaking, leaking with precome and so, so sensitive to every last sensation.

Faris' other hand comes up to caress his cheek, so big and heavy on his skin and so warm, when did Faris get so warm, and maybe he's getting warmer too, literally being lit up, and like that, Rhys is gone. He's all Faris' now, all the way down.

And.

Faris is biting at his caught-open mouth, his breath hot and invasive and almost mocking, showing off that he's got something that Rhys hasn't got, that he's the one in control here, and he's going, “fuck,” hips snapping and rolling, and then, “fuck, you're so pretty like this.”

And.

“So pretty when you're all under my control and close,” and this time Rhys actually manages to make a noise with the little oxygen he's got left in his lungs, just a soft, desperate whine.

And.

“You've gone all pink, fuck,” Faris goes, and his hips aren't letting up, slapping against Rhys' so quickly he can hear it, “I could kill you right now, you know that?”

And.

And that's what actually does it for Rhys, he's coming and it feels like bursting, fists curling up tightly,  and he's breathing, too, Faris' hand letting off, finally. When he looks, Faris is watching him, all devoted and adoring and fascinated, and he's exploding with the built up need to come and the huge breaths he's taking. When Faris finishes inside him, he can feel it, he doesn't have nerve endings, only white-hot wires, and then, then it's over.

Rhys feels all flushed and fucked out and the bindings on his wrists are too much, the sheets on his back and Faris deep inside him are too much, Faris easing himself out carefully is too much. He's still sobbing, he realises that only after the first few have come out, still too far gone to talk.

“Fuck,” Faris says once again. He looks not even half as fucked-out as Rhys feels, and he's slowly untying the rope, pressing soft kisses to Rhys' face, but Rhys turns his face away from him. It's all too much, all too intense and pushing at nerve endings that are glowing too hotly right now.

“You were great tonight,” Faris continues, when he's slowly placed Rhys' wrists on the pillow next to him. “So lovely.”

In response, Rhys sighs, and Faris presses another kiss onto his lips, careful, careful, but still too much.

“I love you so much.”

“Too much.”

“What?”

“Stop touching me,” Rhys whispers, and it takes too much effort.

“Sorry, love.” Faris moves away, kneels up on the mattress and makes a move to get up. “Is it okay if I go for a minute? Just to get you a drink and a flannel for clean up?”

“Okay,” Rhys breathes, and then he's shutting his eyes, taking a breather. He's got to sleep.

He notices when Faris comes back, after only about a minute, like he said, feels him slowly wipe the mess on his stomach off, and then Faris is fitting himself against his side, careful, careful to not touch any particularly sensitive parts, and breathes.

“Love you.”

“Love you back.”

Faris kisses Rhys' neck just above the collar, where his hand had been, and then slowly unbuckles it. “You know I didn't really mean that, right? That part about killing you?”

“I know.”

“I was just fucking with you. Heat of the moment.”

“I know.”

 

–

 

Some mornings, Rhys wakes up with the mattress already empty on Faris' side, empty and only barely warm. He hears the shower running and rolls out of bed himself, pulls Faris' shirt from last night off the floor and slips it on, that and a pair of knickers, and he breathes. He feels the shirt sag around his collarbones and arms and thighs, feels himself drown in it, and he lights a fag and doesn't bother with going out to the balcony.

Those mornings, he can't help but feel really lost.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I don't know where the line towards the end came from. I'm chalking it up to it being one of these _COME ON, IT'S FARIS_ moments.


End file.
